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FROM    THE   LIBRARY   OF 


REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D 


BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 


THE    LIBRARY   OF 


PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


Matea 
Section  /  V^/ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/beautifulOObate 


y 


THE   COLLEGE   BEAUTIFUL       ^ 


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AND   OTHER   PO 


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BY 


•V 


KATHARINE    LEE   BATES 


PRINTED  FOR  THE  BENEFIT  OF 

THE    NORUMBEGA    FUND 

1887 


Copyright,  1887, 
.By  KATHARINE  LEE   BATES. 


The  Riverside  Press  ^  Lambridge  : 
Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

The  College  Beautiful          ....  i 

College  Song 8 

Clara             12 

Lines  for  Longfellow's  Birthday      .        .  14 
Longfellow  :  In  Memoriam       .        .        .        .14 

To  Shelley 17 

Matthew  Arnold 18 

musarum  sacerdos 20 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  Sir 20 

Geology  Made  Easy 23 

Consider  the  Lilies 28 

The  Organist 29 

Watching  the  Wedding 31 

Memorial  Day 35 

Mine  own  Countrie 35 

The  Songs  of  the  Future     ....  38 

A  Song  of  Waking 39 

The  Praise  of  Nature 41 

Non  Nobis  Solum         ...                .        .  44 

Once  and  Again 45 

Rainy  Days 47 

The  Golden  Wedding    .....  48 

Our  Baby 52 

Sleeping  Bessie 53 

Unforgiven 56 


iv  CONTENTS. 

Seeking  the  Spring 57 

Out  of  Sight  of  Land  .        .        .        .  59 

Under  the  Snows  60 

Flight 61 

The  Chamber  of  Peace 62 

The  Birth  of  Spring 63 

The  New  Jerusalem 65 

Azrael 66 

The  Remonstrance 67 

The  New  Year 70 


THE   COLLEGE   BEAUTIFUL. 


i. 

LUE  are  the  skies,  but  for  flake  and 
feather 
Of  floating  cloudlet  as  white  as  wool ; 
Blue  they  bend  in  the  winsome  weather 
Over  the  College  Beautiful. 

ii. 

Fair  she  stands  in  her  fresh  apparel 
Of  scented  blossoms  and  silken  leaves 

That  June,  to  the  tune  of  the  robin's  carol, 
From   the   golden   threads  of   the  sunshine 
weaves. 


in. 


Dance  the  daisies  a  blithe  cotillion ; 

The  oriole,  flaunting  his  orange  coat, 
Trills  and  trolls  in  a  green  pavilion 

Lays  of  love  from  a  mellow  throat. 


2  THE   COLLEGE  BEAUTIFUL. 

IV. 

Till  from  rustic  doorway  the  squirrel  peeping 
Drops  his  acorn  to  chide  and  rail, 

Jealous  court  in  the  oak-tree  keeping, 
Canopied  under  his  royal  tail. 

v. 

In  and  out  of  the  honeyed  clover 

Saileth  the  moth  on  resplendent  wings, 

Dusky  purples  all  damasked  over 
With  gold  and  ruby  emblazonings. 

VI. 

The  whispering  wind,  as  it  swiftly  passes 
From  elm  to  hickory,  lightly  bends 

The  plumy  tops  of  the  dewy  grasses, 

Making  the  ferns  and  the  mosses  friends, 

VII. 

And  dimples  Waban,  to  mirth  beguiling 

Those  waves  where  the  violets,  early  missed 

By  their  bluebird  poets,  dwell  sainted,  smiling 
Up  thro'  the  tremulous  amethyst. 

VIII. 

While  over  the  brink,  like  a  soul  that  searches 
For  love  divine  in  a  human  guise, 


THE    COLLEGE   BEAUTIFUL,  3 

Droop  the  boughs  of  the  silver  birches, 
Reaching  after  the  mirrored  skies. 

IX. 

But  above  the  blooms  and  the  tufted  mosses, 

Azure  lakelet  and  dipping  spray, 
Lifts  the  College  her  steadfast  crosses, 

Pointing  ever  the  heavenward  way. 

x. 

Foster  Mother,  our  hearts  confess  thee 
By  love's  election  their  rightful  Queen. 

Long,  oh  long  may  the  sweet  stars  bless  thee 
With  dews  baptismal  and  solemn  sheen. 

XI. 

Long  thro'  thy  silent  casements  slanted 
May  the  silvery  shafts  of  moonlight  fall 

On  sculptor's  dream  in  the  stone  enchanted, 
Stately  pillar  and  pictured  wall. 

XII. 

Long  may  the  orient  sunbeams  glisten 

On    thy   laureled   busts    that,   with   tranquil 
looks, 

From  their  ordered  thrones  seem  still  to  listen 
To  the  voices  sealed  in  their  faded  books. 


4  THE   COLLEGE  BEAUTIFUL. 

XIII. 
Long  may  the  twilight  rose  and  amber, 

While  the  stealthy  shadows  of  night  increase, 
Flush  the  walls  of  thine  upper  chamber, 

The  hallowed  chamber  whose  name  is  Peace. 

XIV. 

Yet  O  ye  halls  and  ye  arching  spaces, 

Echoing  tones  to  memory  sweet, 
Waves  reflecting  familiar  faces, 

Wood-paths  worn  by  beloved  feet, 

xv. 

Pageant  of  fretted  roofs  that  cluster 

On  hill  and  knoll  in  the  branches  green, 

Ye  are  but  shadow,  and  not  the  lustre, 
Garment  ye  of  a  grace  unseen. 

xvi. 

All  our  life  is  confused  with  fable, 
Ever  the  fact  as  the  phantasy  seems  : 

Yet  the  world  of  spirit  lies  sure  and  stable, 
Under  the  shows  of  the  world  of  dreams. 

XVII. 

Not  an  idle  and  false  derision 

The  rocks  that  crumble,  the  stars  that  fail ; 
Meaning  masketh  within  the  vision, 

Shaping  the  folds  of  the  woven  veil. 


THE    COLLEGE  BEAUTIFUL. 

XVIII. 

Regal  mountains  in  purple  vested, 
Foaming  torrents  that  seaward  leap, 

Coral  isles  with  their  palm-trees  crested, 
Fleecy  clouds  where  the  lightnings  sleep, 

XIX. 

Suns  that  flame  in  their  crystal  dwelling, 
Still  concealing,  must  still  declare 

Glories  their  splendid  pomp  excelling, 
Truth  too  pure  for  our  souls  to  bear. 

XX. 

Thus  where  the  angels'  songs  are  blending 
With  the  silver  sound  of  the  builder's  tool, 

Year  by  year  are  the  walls  ascending 
Of  the  mystic  College,  the  Beautiful. 

XXI. 

Ah,  light  too  keen  for  our  wistful  glances ! 

Darkens  the  vision  and  words  wax  cold. 
Faintly  flash  on  the  spirit's  trances 

Those  marble  turrets  and  fanes  of  gold, 

XXII. 

Where  far  in  the  fair,  ethereal  spaces 
Of  the  realm  ideal,  celestial  lands, 

The  College  reared  of  womanly  graces, 
Honor  and  mercy  and  wisdom  stands. 


6  THE   COLLEGE  BEAUTLFUL. 

XXIII. 

There  hoar  Learning,  forgetful  warden, 
Leans  on  his  staff  and  smiling  sees 

Maidens  pillage  his  thornset  garden, 
Dreaming  of  new  Hesperides. 

XXIV. 

And  Hope  looks  forth  from  her  eastern  tower 
For  these,  who  have  fed  on  the  fruits  divine, 

To  return  to  the  radiant  gates,  with  dower 
Of  fragrant  deeds  to  enwreathe  the  shrine. 

XXV. 

Not  Indian  gems  nor  Sabaean  spices, 

Silken  wefts  nor  ivories  rare 
Frosted  over  with  quaint  devices, 

Are  the  tribute  due  at  that  altar-stair. 

XXVI. 

Richer  the  treasure  our  crypt  inherits, 
Prayers  for  lilies,  and  words  of  ruth 

For  odorous  balms ;  for  diamonds,  spirits 
Iridescent  with  central  truth. 

XXVII. 

Such  gifts  were  theirs,  whose  names  are  spoken 
With  filial  praise  in  our  palace  gate, 

Their  gold  and  silver  but  chrismal  token 
Of  lives  anointed  and  consecrate. 


THE    COLLEGE   BEAUTIFUL. 


XXVIII. 

Call  them  blessed,  whose  pure  endeavor 

Wrought  in  the  world  like  redeeming  leaven. 

Blessing  shall  follow  their  steps  forever, 
All  the  pathway  from  earth  to  heaven. 

XXIX. 

His  that  already  the  light  hath  gilded, 
Hers  in  the  shadow  that  fare  alone ; 

For  wrell  we  know  on  what  Rock  they  builded, 
Even  on  Christ  the  Corner-Stone. 


XXX. 

And  we,  whom  the  gracious  shade  embraces 
Of  the  groves  they  planted,  fain  would  take 

On  the  rising  bulwarks  our  loyal  places, 
Speeding  the  labor  for  love's  dear  sake. 

XXXI. 

With  soaring  arches  and  gleaming  spires 
Of  aspiration,  with  cloistered  aisles 

Where  Patience  muses  her  meek  desires 

And  Faith  sheds  light  from  her  lifted  smiles, 

XXXII. 

On  truth's  white  columns  of  alabaster, 
Meting  the  walls  by  the  Golden  Rule, 

After  the  plan  of  the  All-Wise  Master 
Building  the  College  Beautiful. 


8  COLLEGE  SOXG. 


COLLEGE  SONG. 

LL  hail  to  the  College  Beautiful ! 

All  hail  to  the  Wellesley  blue  ! 
AH  hail  to  the  girls  who  are  gathering 
pearls 
From  the  shells  that  open  to  few  ! 
From  the    shells  upcast  by  the  ebbing  Past 

On  the  shores  where,  faithful  and  true, 
An  earnest  band,  with  the  groping  hand, 
Are  seeking  the  jewels  from  under  the  sand, 
And  spreading  abroad  through   the  breadth  of 
the  land 
The  name  of  the  Wellesley  blue. 

chorus. 

All  hail  to  the  College  Beautiful ! 

All  hail  to  the  royal  throne, 
Whence,  her  heart  within  her  burning, 
Silver  voiced,  far-eyed  Learning 

Looks  upon  her  own ! 

All  hail  to  the  College  Beautiful ! 
All  hail  to  the  sacred  walls, 
Where,  sinking  away  in  shadowy  gray, 
Still  the  sun's  last  radiance  falls ! 
Where    first    on    the    lake    the    day-beams 

awake, 
And  the  Spring's  white  manacles  break. 


SLEEP.  9 

But  flushed  in  waking  or  pale  in  rest, 

With  leaves  on  her  hair  or  with  snows  on  her 

breast, 
Forever  the  fairest  and  noblest  and  best, 
All  hail  to  her  sacred  walls  ! 

CHORUS. 

All  hail  to  the  College  Beautiful  ! 

All  hail  to  the  royal  throne, 
Whence,  her  heart  within  her  burning, 
Silver-voiced,  far-eyed  Learning 

Looks  upon  her  own  ! 


SLEEP. 

LAY  me  down  before  the  rustic  gate 
That  opens  on  the  shadowed  land  of 
sleep. 

I  famish  for  its  fruits  and  may  not  wait 
To  quaff  the  drowsy  waters  cool  and  deep. 
I  knock,  O  Sleep  the  Comforter  !     Again 
My  weakness  faints  unto  thy  great  caress. 
The  circling  thought  beats  blindly  through  the 

brain 
With  dull  persistency  of  barren  pain, 
And  draws  uncertain  doubting  and  distress 
To  prove  that  man  unto  himself  is  utter  weari- 
ness. 


10  SLEEP. 

Upon  these  withered  grasses  is  no  rest. 
Thy  crimson-dotted  mosses  are  denied. 
In  dewy  vines  I  see  thy  portal  dressed, 
But  know  that  only  on  the  further  side 
The  purple  grapes  droop  over.     Take  me  in ! 
I  do  not  fear  to  trust  myself  to  thee. 
Waking  and  danger  are  of  closer  kin, 
But  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  grief  or  sin  ? 
Imprisoned  from  myself,  I  wander  free, 
And  no  resplendent    sun  of  noon  grants  such 
security. 

I  would  not  lie  to-night  so  near  the  bars, 
If  to  thy  realm  fair  entrance  I  may  find, 
That  through  them  I  might  view   our   mortal 

stars 
Or  hear  the  passing  of  our  pilgrim  wind. 
Not  even  would  I  wish  some  gentle  friend 
To  lean  against  them  with  a  loving  face, 
For  rest  and  life  were  never  willed  to  blend, 
And  as  I  watched  the  day  unto  its  end, 
So  would  I  sleep  the  night  without  a  trace 
Not  only  of  day's  grievousness,  but  even  of  its 

grace. 

Nor  spread  my  couch  within  thy  garden-beds, 
Where  fairy  forms  from  out  the  blossoms  glance, 
And  catch  the  yellow  moonlight  on  their  heads 
To  shift  it  swiftly  in  the  swaying  dance. 


SLEEP.  1 1 

Nor  wrap  my  limbs  in  thine  enchanted  cloak 
Beneath  the  tree  whose  hollow  shadows  teem 
With  changing  faces  of  fantastic  folk 
And  dim,  dissolving  shapes,  —  thy  wizard  oak 
Whose  every  leaf  conceals  a  fabled  dream, 
Whose  dipping  boughs  disturb  thy  hushed  and 
holy  stream. 

But  take  me  to  thy  kingdom's  very  heart, 

0  solemn  Sleep,  with  thee  alone  to  dwell. 
In  deepest  grotto  hide  me,  far  apart 

From  tone  or  touch,  and  guard  mine  eyelids 

well. 
Yea,  charm  the  weary  senses  deaf  and  blind, 
And  let  me  there  lie  face  to  face  with  thee. 
So  shall  the  morning  cleave  the  clouds  to  find 
Thy  fragrance  clinging  to  my  waking  mind, 
But  what  thy  lips  did  whisper  unto  me 

1  '11  bear  too  fine  for  consciousness,   too  deep 

for  memory. 

Then  call  my  footsteps  in,  O  silent  warden, 
For  even  as  I  plead,  night  waxes  late. 
Call  thou  my  feet  to  rest  within  the  garden 
And  lift  the  latches  of  the  rustic  gate. 
There  grant  me  shelter  till  the  blushing  east 
Proclaim  another  sun,  whose  golden  gaze 
Shall  view  me  passing,  from  thy  trance  released, 
With   glad   heart  forth  to  share  the  generous 
feast 


12  CLARA. 


Of  life,  to  run  in  God's  appointed  ways, 
The  songs  of  weariness  all  hushed  in  sweeter 
psalms  of  praise. 


CLARA. 

SOUL  of  music  and  wind, 

So  pure  from  the  gates  of  birth, 
That  how  could  we  hope  to  bind 
The  rare  and  beautiful  mind 
To  a  perishing  form  of  earth  ? 

She  quivered  within  its  hold, 
Yet  we  loved  her,  ah,  so  well, 

That  we  thought  our  love  might  fold 

Her  spirit  against  the  cold 
Of  this  land  wherein  we  dwell. 

But  still  through  our  tenderest  word, 
Through  the  sea's  mysterious  tone, 

Through  the  song  of  our  sweetest  bird, 

She  listened  and  ever  heard 
An  echo  beyond  our  own. 

The  shadow  troubled  her  sore 
That  holdeth  our  mortal  eyes  ; 

We  weep,  for  forevermore 

The  vision  of  that  dim  shore 
In  beauty  before  her  lies. 


CLARA.  1 3 

For  the  voice  grew  clear  in  her  ears, 

While  she  gladdened  our  daily  sight ; 
The  shadow  slipt  from  the  years, 
Till  she  vanished  between  our  tears 
And  fled  out  into  the  light. 

A  soul  of  music  and  wind, 

A  spirit  of  radiant  mirth, 
A  heart  that  thrilled  to  its  kind, 
A  life  with  our  lives  entwined, 

An  ecstacy  fled  from  earth. 

We  meet  our  loss  as  we  may ; 

We  turn  to  our  toils  again  ; 
But  a  glory  has  passed  from  the  day, 
And  all  that  we  think  or  say 

Bears  a  hidden  sense  of  pain. 

Yet  we  look  on  time's  swift  stream 

No  more  with  a  faithless  eye, 
Nor  of  life  and  death  can  deem 
That  the  sleep  forgets  the  dream, 

Who  have  seen  our  dear  one  die. 

From  the  cloud-land  whither  she  passed, 

Where  her  passing  left  a  rift, 
A  glimmer  of  light  is  cast 
On  our  paths,  and  we  hold  it  fast, 

As  we  treasure  her  latest  gift. 


14 


LONGFELLOW:   IN  MEMORTAM. 


LINES    FOR    LONGFELLOW'S    BIRTH- 
DAY. 

O  the  land  of  granite  and  ice, 

In  the  month  of  frost  and  snow, 
A  strain  of  music  from  Paradise 
Came  seeking  a  home  below. 
It  entered  a  child's  white  heart, 

And  the  little  human  tent 
Grew  to  a  shrine  for  its  guest  divine,  — 
The  poem  the  gods  had  sent. 


Now  the  rocky  hills  are  crossed 

By  snatches  of  happy  tune. 
The  month  of  darkness  and  frost 

We  honor  above  the  June. 
For  thou,  O  poet  we  love, 

Art  the  bloom  of  our  northern  clime, 
And  we  know  that  song,  through  the  ages  long, 

Is  the  sweetest  fruit  of  time. 


LONGFELLOW:    IN   MEMORIAM. 


|  LAS,   our  harp  of  harps  !   the   instru- 
ment 
On    whose   fine    strings   the    nymph 
Parnassus-bred 


LONGFELLOW:   IN  MEMORIAM.  I  5 

Played  ever  most  melodiously  is  rent, 
And  all  the  music  fled. 


Alas,  cur  torch  of  truth  !  the  lofty  light 
That  yet  a  tender  household  radiance  cast, 
And  made  the  cottage  as  the  palace  bright, 
Is  blotted  out  at  last. 

Alas,  the  sweet  pure  life,  that  ripened  still 
To  holier  thought  and  more  benignant  grace, 
Hath  spread  its  wings,  and  who  is  left  to  fill 
The  dear  and  empty  place  ? 

How  poor  thou  art,  O  bleak  Atlantic  coast ! 
How  barren  all  thy  hills,  my  mother-land  ! 
Where  now  amid  the  nations  is  thy  boast, 
And  where  thy  Delphic  band  ? 

Of  that  bright  group  who  sang  among  thy  wheat, 
And  cheered  thy  reapers  lest  their  brown  arms 

tire, 
Whom  ermined  Europe  raised  a  hand  to  greet, 
As  princes  of  the  lyre, 

The  first  have  fallen,  and  the  others  wait, 
The  snow  of  years  on  each  beloved  head, 
With  weary  feet  before  the  sunset  gate 
That  opens  toward  the  Dead. 


1 6  LONGFELLOW:   IN  MEMORIAM. 

And  who  abides  to  sing  away  our  pain, 
As  these  our  bards  we  carry  to  their  rest  ? 
We  need  thy  comfort  for  the  tears  that  rain, 
O  poet,  on  thy  breast. 

It  is  our  earth,  where  prophet  steps  grow  few, 
For  which  we  weep,  and  not,  O  harper  gray, 
For  thee,  who  caroled  from  the  morning  dew 
To  noontide  of  the  day, 

Nor  left  thy  task  when  twilight  down  the  wall 
Stole  silently  in  shadowy  flakes  and  bars, 
And  whose  clear  tones,  while  night  enfolded  all, 
Sang  on  beneath  the  stars. 

The  knights  and  dames  had  bent  their  heads  to 

list, 
The  serving-maids  were   hearkening  from  the 

stair, 
And  little  childish  faces,  mother-kissed, 
Had  flocked  about  thy  chair, 

When  ceased  thy  fingers  in  the  strings  to  weave, 
O'er  thine  anointed  sight  the  eyelids  fell ; 
And  thou  wert  sleeping,  who  from  dawn  to  eve 
Hadst  wrought  so  wondrous  well. 

O  gentle  minstrel,  may  thy  rest  be  deep 
And  tranquil,  as  thy  working-tide  was  long, 


TO  SHELLEY.  \J 

Our   lonely  hearts  will  grudge   thee    not   thy 
sleep, 
Who  grudged  us  not  thy  song. 


TO    SHELLEY. 

Born  near  Horsham,  Sussex,  August  4,  1792.     Drowned 
in  the  Bay  of  Spezzia,  July  8,  1822. 

I. 

HENE'ER   I   hear  the  wind,  I  think 
of  thee, 
O  Shelley,  bird  of  most  aerial  note, 
Who  pouredst  kindred  songs  from  thy 
clear  throat, 
As  passion  wild,  impetuous,  and  free, 
As  shrill  with  sudden  ecstacies  of  glee 
And  hoarse  with  human  agonies  which  smote 
Thy  gentlest  heart  till  it  would  fain  devote 
Its  music  unto  man's  captivity. 
For  thou  wouldst  have  all  chains  of  pride  and 

fear, 
Which  rust  the  willing  spirit  where  they  bind, 
Dissolved  in  love,  as  shadows  disappear 
Before  the  sun  ;  to  evil  unresigned, 
Urging  the  nobler  discontent  we  hear 
In  all  the  restless  voices  of  the  wind. 


1 8  MA  TTHE  W  ARNOLD. 


II. 

The  summer  comes  again,  by  vale  and  hill 
With  blossoms  fashioning  her  fragrant  way  ; 
But  thou,  the  child  of  summer,  to  the  day 
Art  long  unknown,  and  all  thy  steps  are  still. 
In  summer  wert  thou  born,  and  thou  didst  fill 
Thy  scanty  urn  of  years  while  summer  spray 
Whitened  the  shores  where  thy  mute  image  lay, 
Robbed  of  its  poet.     Hence  the  summers  will 
Seek  thee  in  vain.     The  eye  that  watched  the 

cloud 
Hath  locked  its  sight  beneath  the  fallen  lid ; 
The  ear  that  heard  the  skylark's  note  is  vowed 
To  a  perpetual  silence.     Thou  art  hid 
Beyond  the  summers,  and  thy  name  belongs 
But  to  a  ceaseless  melody  of  songs. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD : 

ON    HEARING    HIM    READ    HIS    POEMS  IN  BOSTON. 

STRANGER,  schooled  to  gentle  arts, 
He  stept  before  the  curious  throng ; 
His  path  into  our  waiting  hearts 
Already  paved  by  song. 

Full  well  we  knew  his  choristers, 

Whose  plaintive  voices  haunt  our  rest, 


MA  TTHE  W  ARNOLD.  1 9 

Those  sable-vested  harbingers 
Of  melancholy  guest. 

We  smiled  on  him  for  love  of  these, 
With  eyes  that  swift  grew  dim  to  scan 

Beneath  the  veil  of  courteous  ease 
The  faith-forsaken  man. 

To  his  sad  gaze  the  weary  shows 

And  fashions  of  our  vain  estate, 
Our  shallow  pain  and  false  repose, 

Our  barren  love  and  hate, 

Are  shadows  in  a  land  of  graves, 

Where  creeds,  the  bubbles  of  a  dream, 

Flash  each  and  fade,  like  melting  waves 
Upon  a  moonlight  stream. 

Yet  loyal  to  his  own  despair, 

Erect  beneath  a  darkened  sky, 
He  deems  the  thorniest  truth  more  fair 

Than  any  gilded  lie  j 

And  stands,  the  spectre  of  his  age, 

With  hopeless  hands  that  bind  the  sheaf, 

Claiming  God's  work  without  His  wage, 
The  bard  of  unbelief. 


20  MR.   EDWARD   OLNEY,   SIR. 


MUSARUM  SACERDOS. 


HO  called  himself  your  priest,  Immor- 
tal Choir  ? 
%*&   Not  Dante,  though  in  ruddiest  altar- 


flame 
He  plunged  his  torch,  and  bore  it  through  the 

shame 
Of  deepening  hell  to  domes  of  starry  fire, 
In  steadfast  temple-service.     Not  that  sire 
Of  glorious  chant,  our  Milton,  he  who  came 
With  solemn  tread  and  vestments  purged  from 

blame 
To  swing  the  censer  of  divine  desire. 
But  Horace,  sipping  at  your  crystal  spring 
As  lightly  as  he  quaffed  his  Sabine  wine, 
Caught  up  that  lute,  about  whose  golden  string 
The  rose  and  myrtle  he  was  deft  to  twine, 
And  sweetly  sang,  in  pauses  of  the  feast, 
"  The  poet  is  the  gods'  anointed  priest." 


MR.  EDWARD  OLNEY,  SIR. 

R.  Edward  Olney,  Sir, 
Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown ; 
Vou  thought  to  write  an  Algebra 
For  pastime  ere  your  sun  went  down. 


■MR.    EDWARD   OLNEY,   SIR.  21 

You  're  not  the  child  to  draw  it  mild. 
The  very  Sphinx  your  pen  inspired  ; 
The  father  of  an  hundred  woes, 
You  are  not  one  to  be  admired. 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  Sir, 
I  know  you  proud  to  evolve  your  surds  ; 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 
Too  proud  to  count  myself  three-thirds. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 
A  heart  that  bounds  to  truer  glee  ; 
A  single  line  of  Thomas  Hood 
Is  worth  a  dozen  formulae. 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  Sir, 
Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  could  I  mete  the  Milky  Way, 
I  would  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  cube, 
And  my  disdain  is  my  reply; 
Your  stovepipe  hat  upon  the  nail 
Is  not  more  stiff  to  you  than  I. 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  Sir, 

You  bring  strange  sights  before  my  eye  : 

Not  thrice  your  birthday  cakes  have  baked, 

Since  I  beheld  young  Phcebe  cry. 

Oh,  your  curved  lines  !  your  minus  signs  ! 

A  great  professor  you  may  be, 


22  MR.   EDWARD    OLNEY,  SIR. 

But  there  was  that  upon  her  cheek 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  Sir, 
When  thus  she  met  her  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 
She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you  ; 
Indeed,  I  heard  one  bitter  word 
That  scarce  could  justly  be  defined. 
Her  sentence  lacked  the  accurate  terms, 
That  stamp  a  mathematic  mind. 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  Sir, 

A  spectre  haunts  your  college-walk, 

The  guilt  of  tears  is  at  your  door, 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  chalk. 

You  fixed  the  course  without  remorse, 

Regardless  of  her  sore  lament, 

And  when  the  day  of  trial  came, 

You  slew  her  with  an  eight  per  cent. 

Trust  me,  Edward  Olney,  Sir, 

Orion  and  the  Pleiades, 

From  the  blue  heavens  above  us  bent, 

Smile  at  your  minutes  and  degrees. 

Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me 

'T  is  only  fair  ourselves  to  please  ; 

Dry  eyes  are  more  than  decimals, 

And  happy  hearts  than  indices. 


-~rr->J 


GEOLOGY  MADE  EASY. 


23 


I  know  you,  Edward  Olney,  Sir, 

You  pine  among  your  roots  and  powers  ; 

The  rolling  light  of  your  red  eyes 

Is  weary  of  the  languid  hours. 

'Mid  wondering  trains,  with  boundless  brains, 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 

You  know  so  ill  to  factor  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 

Edward,  Edward  Olney,  Sir, 
If  time  hangs  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  hinges  off  your  gate, 
Nor  any  weeds  upon  your  lands  ? 
Oh,  teach  your  little  girl  to  bake, 
Or  teach  your  little  boy  to  hoe  ! 
Pray  heaven  for  a  human  heart, 
And  let  the  foolish  freshmen  go. 


GEOLOGY  MADE  EASY. 

1 '  Write  me  then 
As  one  who  loves  his  fellowmen/' 


TELL  a  tale  which  makes  me  pale 

For  its  dismal  recollections, 
That  coming  classes  may  avail 
Themselves  of  its  inflections. 


24  GEOLOGY  MADE  EASY. 

I  conned  the  rocks  with  an  anxious  eye, 

A  student  meek  and  docile, 
When  a  distant  whisper  floated  by, 

"  Oh,  come  and  be  a  fossil  !  " 

Farewell  the  Cenozoic  Age, 
With  all  its  toiling  daughters  ! 

Wise  Time  turned  back  his  yellow  page  ; 
I  swam  in  ancient  waters. 

And  first  I  met  in  the  aching  void 

The  solemn  Eozoon, 
And  only  the  stem  of  the  salt  Crinoid 

Vibrated  to  my  moan. 

iC  I  'm  lonely  in  the  world, "  I  cried, 
And  shouted  o'er  and  o'er, 
But  not  a  Rhizopod  replied 
From  the  silent  Protozoa. 

The  Graptolite  and  the  Trilobite 
To  a  gladder  temper  won  me, 

But  oh,  for  the  Orthoceretite, 

And  the  smile  he  smiled  upon  me  ! 

"  Thou  Brachiopod,  art  mollusk  or  worm  ?  " 
I  asked  with  a  mixed  sensation, 
But  I  fled  from  the  frivolous  Placoderm, 
Nor  lingered  for  conversation. 


GEOLOGY  MADE  EASY.  2$ 

I  blushed  to  hear  the  Ganoid  wail  ; 

He  sobbed,  "  I  'm  not  a  stoic, 
And  I  've  lost  my  vertebrated  tail 

In  the  early  Mesozoic." 

But  I  scoffed  and  longed  for  a  Teliost, 
With  the  most  intense  of  wishes  ; 

For  my  sympathies  had  all  been  lost 
On  those  queer  Devonian  fishes. 

The  Belemnite  and  the  Polyp  weird 

Exceedingly  did  act  ill, 
And  from  the  Lepidodendron  jeered 

The  bitter  Pterodactyl. 

I  sought  to  rest  on  the  marshy  shore, 
Where  the  Labyrinthodonts  amble, 

But  I  heard  the  hoarse  Batrachian  roar 
'Neath  a  cryptogamic  bramble. 

Yet  the  sedimentary  fear  I  name 

And  my  igneous  indignation, 
By  a  metamorphic  move,  became 

A  quite  distinct  formation. 

The  beast  I  saw  was  shy  and  small, 

No  elephant  or  camel, 
'T  was  only  a  marsupial, 

But  oh !  it  was  a  mammal ! 


26  GEOLOGY  MADE   EASY. 

I  leapt  for  joy,  but  hope  deceives  j 
With  heat  he  seemed  to  swelter, 

The  Cycad  'neath  her  fronded  leaves 
In  vain  proposed  a  shelter. 

He  scorned  that  generous  Gymnosperm  ; 

No  Conifer  revived  him  ; 
He  vanished,  never  to  return  ; 

His  jaw  alone  survived  him. 

The  sombre  Sigillaria  sighed  ; 

He  wrould  not  linger  for  us, 
And  only  to  our  calls  replied 

The  winsome  Ichthyosaurus. 

"  Too  bad  !"  the  Saurian  murmured,  "but 
He  '11  surely  come  to-morrow  \  " 
While  down  the  drear  Connecticut 
The  Dinosaur  marched  in  sorrow. 

But  soon  Herbivores  arose, 

Nor  far  behind  the  Lemur  \ 
And  some  that  had  too  many  toes, 

Which  gave  a  proud  demeanor. 

But  now  I  mourned  my  task  begun, 

The  country  grew  so  hilly \ 
I  did  n't  like  the  Mastodon, 

And  found  the  glaciers  chilly. 


GEOLOGY  MADE  EASY.  2J 

My  gentle  temper  had  been  wrecked, 

That  used  to  be  so  placid. 
I  had  a  headache,  the  effect 

Of  much  carbonic  acid. 

il  My  bones,"  I  said,  "from  toil  you  can 
Find  only  one  vacation  ; 
Before  the  coming  Age  of  Man, 
Try  solidification. 

"  A  modest  shale  or  argillyte 

Would  make  a  pleasing  closet, 
Or  in  a  sober  syenite 
Your  relics  I  '11  deposit." 

"  Not  so,"  says  Fate  ;  "you  '11  have  to  wait ; 
I  can't  accept  your  datum. 
Geology  prepares  her  late 

And  most  distressing  stratum. 


a 


A  future  race  shall  seek  your  place, 

Your  geologic  station, 
And  find  your  last  imbedded  trace 

In  the  examination." 


28 


CONSIDER    THE  LILIES. 


CONSIDER   THE   LILIES. 

N  dewy  hedge  and  thicket  dim 

The  birds    have    trilled  their  matin 
hymn. 
The  sun  hath  journeyed  on  his  way 
Far  from  the  ruby  gates  of  day. 

Then  lift  your  lovely  looks.     Awake, 
O  dreaming  buds  of  Waban  Lake  1 
The  only  missing  grace  supply 
To  dipping  boughs  and  mirrored  sky. 

No  bee  enticed  from  honeyed  wood, 
No  golden-belted  Robin  Hood 
Shall,  turning  pirate,  do  offence 
To  your  unveiled  innocence. 

Hush  !  one  by  one  and  two  by  two, 
They  sparkle  on  the  waters  blue, 
A  sweet  and  stainless  sisterhood, 
Surpassing  all  similitude. 

So  may  my  heart  in  waking  praise 
The  Giver  of  benignant  days, 
With  morning  blossoms  fresh  and  fair, 
The  pure  resolve,  the  fragrant  prayer. 


THE  ORGANIST.  29 


THE   ORGANIST. 

LOWLY  I  circle  the  dim,  dizzy  stair, 
Wrapt  in  my  cloak's  gray  fold, 
Holding  my  heart  lest  it  throb  to  the 
air 
Its  radiant  secret,  for  though  I  be  old, 
Though   I  totter  and  rock  like  a  ship  in  the 

wind, 
And  the  sunbeams  come  unto  me  broken  and 

blind, 
Yet  my  spirit  drinks  youth  from  the  treasure  we 
hold, 

Richer  than  gold. 

Princes  below  me,  lips  wet  from  the  wine 

Hush  at  my  organ's  swell ; 
Ladies  applaud  me  with  clappings  as  fine 

As  showers  that  splash  in  a  musical  well. 
But  their  ears  only  hear  mighty  melodies  ringing, 
And  their  souls  never  know  't  is  my  angel  there 

singing, 
That  the  grand  organ-angel  awakes  in  his  cell 
Under  my  spell. 

There  in  the  midst  of  the  wandering  pipes, 
Far  from  the  gleaming  keys, 


30  THE   ORGANIST. 

And  the  organ-front  with  its  gilded  stripes, 

My  glorious  angel  lies  sleeping  at  ease. 
And   the  hand  of  a  stranger  may  beat  at  his 

And  the  ear  of  a  stranger  may  listen  and  wait, 
But  he  only  cries  in  his  pain  for  these, 
Witless  to  please. 

Angel,  my  angel,  the  old  man's  hand 

Knoweth  thy  silver  way  ; 
I  loose  thy  lips  from  their  silence-band 

And  over  thy  heart-strings  my  fingers  play, 
While   the  song  peals  forth  from  thy  mellow- 
throat, 
And  my  spirit  climbs  on  the  climbing  note, 
Till  I  mingle  thy  tone  with  the  tones  away, 
Over  the  day. 

So  I  look  up  as  I  follow  the  tone, 

Up  with  my  dim  old  eyes, 
And  I  wonder  if  organs  have  angels  alone, 
Or  if,  as  my  fancy  might  almost  surmise, 
Each  man   in    his  heart   folds    an    angel   with 

wings, 
An  angel  that  slumbers,  but  wakens  and  sings, 
When  thrilled  by  the  touch  that  is  sympathy- 
wise, 

Bidding  it  rise. 


WATCHING    THE  WEDDING.  3 1 


WATCHING   THE   WEDDING. 

HO  can  tell  me  where  I  'm  going, 

Tell  a  little  maid  like  me,  « 

With  her  fingers  worn  for  sewing, 
But  her  soul  as  full  of  glee 
As  of  scented,  blushing  blossoms  yonder  twisted 
apple-tree. 

For  perchance  my  life  is  twisted 

Out  of  shape  in  so  much  thread  \ 
I  was  never  hrmly-wristed, 
With  a  steady  back  and  head, 
And  you  taste  so  many  stitches  in  a  single  loaf 
of  bread. 

And  by  eve  my  arms  grow  tired, 

Underneath  their  level  stare, 
Shaping  folds  to  be  admired 
On  these  ladies,  who  are  fair. 
Would  we  look  so  white,  I  wonder,  if  we  had 
such  silks  to  wear. 

For  to  serve  another's  beauty 

All  the  days  when  you  are  young, 
And  to  do  a  mirror's  duty, 

With  the  ever-praising  tongue  ; 
—  Would  you  rather  sing,  red  robin,  or  like 
sometimes  to  be  sung  ? 


32  WATCHING    THE    WEDDING. 

I  forget  —  to  stain  with  sorrow 

This  clear-colored  holiday. 
Yesterday  and  the  to-morrow 
Have  no  robin  on  their  spray. 
Can  you    tell   me    where   I  'm  going,   winding 
down  the  woodland  way  ? 

No,  Sir  Squirrel,  you  've  no  notion, 

With  your  bushy  tail  a-swell. 
You  may  make  a  fine  commotion 
In  the  branches  where  you  dwell. 
You  may  chatter  till  the  nuts  fall.     I  can  keep 
my  secret  well. 

Holding  back  these  saplings  pliant, 

I  can  catch  a  perfume  sweet; 
I  can  see  my  rock,  the  giant, 
Crouching  in  the  noonday  heat, 
With  the  last  pale  Mayflowers  dying  clustered 
round  his  shaggy  feet. 

And  above  there  is  the  highway, 

And  beyond  there  is  the  church. 
They  will  not  be  looking  my  way, 
Even  if  this  friendly  birch 
Did  not  shield  me  as  completely  as  a  bird  upon 
her  perch. 

Little  dreameth  she  who  lingers 

Here,  and  thou  —  thou  dreamest  less, 


WATCHING    THE  WEDDING.  33 

Bonny  bridegroom,  what  small  fingers 
Wrought  thy  lady's  wedding-dress, 
Who  the  mysteries  might  whisper  of  that  bridal 
loveliness  ? 

I  may  laugh,  —  't  is  close  and  shady,  — 

Workmanship  will  have  its  pride, 
And  I  fashioned  yon  fair  lady, 
Sewing  stitches  in  my  side. 
Youth  is  good  and  love  is  better,  but  the  satin 
makes  the  bride. 

Now  they  come.     I  hear  the  voices, 
And  the  merry  church-bells  ring, 
While  the  very  wood  rejoices, 
For  the  birds  fly  up  to  sing. 
Hush !    to  weep   upon    their    coming    were   a 
wicked  welcoming. 

I  will  shape  my  lips  to  kindness, 
Smiling  on  them,  ere  they  go. 
It  were  sudden  cure  for  blindness 
To  behold  them  pacing  so, 
She  with  modest,  drooping  lashes,  he  with  eager 
looks  aglow. 

Bonny  bridegroom,  art  thou  idle 

In  my  craft,  when  all  is  said  ? 
Dost  ihou  weave  no  raiment  bridal 

For  the  lady  thou  shalt  wed  ? 


34  WATCHING    THE    WEDDING. 

Dost  thou  shape  her  true-love  vesture,  sewing 
with  a  golden  thread  ? 

Prithee,  brother  artist,  speed  me 

With  a  little  of  thy  skill. 
For  I  fear  thou  dost  exceed  me, 
And  my  labor  shows  but  ill. 
Yet — oh,  shame  if  thy  seam  parteth,  while  my 
dull  thread  holdeth  still ! 

So  I  praise  a  shining  treasure, 

If  no  nearer  than  a  star. 
So  I  steal  a  bitter  pleasure, 
Watching  weddings  from  afar. 
But  before  the  little  seamstress  long  and  dim 
the  pathways  are. 

Nay  !  my  robin  is  turned  raven, 

And  his  wings  were  feathered  wrong. 
Certes,  he  is  but  a  craven, 

Who  would  sing  me  such  a  song. 
I  will  run  again  and  seek  him.     I  will  search 
the  lane  along. 

I  may  find  my  fate's  redressing; 

I  may  meet  a  crooked  witch, 
Or  a  statue,  white  with  blessing, 
Wandered  from  its  Roman  niche, 
Or  a  folded  bud  to  blossom  even  while  I  sit  and 
stitch. 


MINE   OWN  COUNTRIE. 


35 


MEMORIAL   DAY. 


TREW  blossoms  on  their  graves,   for 
this  is  well  — 
Pale  roses  and  the  sweet-lipped  violet ; 
The  pansy,  still  with  tears  of  memory 
wet ; 
And  lilies  of  the  valley,  wont  to  knell 
The  fairies'  requiem  in  the  wooded  dell ; 
Sad  heliotrope  and  tender  mignonette, 
Frail  tokens  that  our  land  doth  not  forget 
The  hero  sons  who  for  her  honor  fell. 
But  O  my  brothers  !  even  while  ye  stoop 
These  flowers  to  scatter,  be  it  yours  to  pay 
A  better  homage.     Quit  your  greed  and  shame  ; 
Purge  our  high  places,  lest  our  banner  droop, 
Soiled  by  the  touch  of  men  less  pure  than  they 
Whose  loyal  blood  once  cleansed  our  nation's 
name. 


MINE   OWN    COUNTRIE. 


ANY  the  lands  that  the   true-hearted 
honor ; 
Many  the  banners  that  blow  on  the 
sea  ; 


36  MINE   OWN  COUNTRIE. 

Ah,    but  one   country,  —  God's  blessing  upon 
her!  — 

Ah,  but  one  only  is  precious  to  me  ; 
Dear   for    her    mountains,  rock-based,   cloudy- 
crested, 

Hooded  with  snow  'mid  the  ardors  of  June, 
—  Haunts  where   the   bald-headed  eagle    has 
nested, 

Staring  full  hard  on  his  neighbor,  the  moon  ; 
Dear  for  her  vineyards  and  jessamine  gardens, 

Forests  of  fir-trees  and  sugar-cane  brakes; 
Dear  for  her  oceans,  her  twin  gray  wardens, 

Dear  for  her  girdle  of  sapphire  lakes  ; 
Dear  for  her  southwind  the  prairie  that  crosses, 

Rippling  the  wheat  like  a  sunshiny  sea  ; 
Nay,  I  could  kiss  but  the  least  of  her  mosses, 

All  for  the  love  of  mine  own  countrie. 

Veins  of  fine  gold  and  ribs  of  strong  iron, 

Coal-hoards  of  centuries,  fair-fruited  trees, 
Jewels  that  gleam  like  the  bulwarks  of  Zion,  — 

Least  of  her  wealth  may  be  counted  in  these. 
Richer  she  deemeth  the  hearts  she  inherits 

Strung  by  those  valorous  pilgrims  of  God, 
Who  wrested   their  bread  from   the  rock,  till 
their  spirits 

Hardened  to  mate  with  the  granite  they  trod. 
Peace  to  the  homespun,  the  heroes  who  wore  it, 

Whose  patriot  passion  in  stormy  career 


MINE    OWN  COUNTRIE.  37 

Swept  back  the  redcoats  seaward  before  it, 
Like  wind-driven  leaves  in  the  wane  of  the 
year. 

Peace  be  to  each  who  embellished  her  story, 
Struck  with  the  sabre  or  prayed  on  the  knee, 

Sat  in  her  council  or  sung  of  her  glory, 
All  for  the  love  of  mine  own  countrie. 

Tell   me    not   now  of   the   blots    that   bestain 
her 

Beautiful  vestments,  that  sully  the  white. 
If  by  my  tears  she  were  aught  the  gainer, 

Fain  would  I  weep  for  her  day  and  night ; 
If  by  my  blood  I  could  purge  her  forever 

From  shame  of   the  Indian,   shame  of    the 
slave, 
Would  I  shower  it  forth  in  as  ruddy  a  river 

As  ever  crusader  for  Holy  Land  gave. 
Fair  is  the  star,  though  the  mists  may  dim  her ; 

Mists  are  fleeting,  but  stars  endure  ; 
Soon,  full  soon,  shall  the  golden  glimmer 

Wax  to  a  splendor  superb  and  pure. 
Fling  to  the  breezes  the  star-spangled  banner, 

Greet  it  with  cheers  to  the  three  times  three. 
Smiles  chase  tears  in  the  good  old  manner, 

All  for  the  love  of  mine  own  countrie. 

Land  of  Promise  !     By  one  hearth  kneeling, 
Long  for  thy  peace  may  thy  sons  agree  ! 


38  THE  SONGS  OF  THE  FUTURE. 

May  dews  of  health  and  shadows  of  healing 

Fall  from  the  leaves  of  thy  Liberty  Tree ! 
Dare  to  be  noble,  my  nation.     Go  fashion 

Deeds  that  thine  angel  record  not  with  ruth. 
Wear  on  thy  heart  the  white  rose  of  compas- 
sion, 

Conquer  thy  foes  by  forbearance  and  truth. 
Still  by  the  need  of  thy  sires  storm-driven, 

Glad  in  strange  waters  their  vessels  to  moor 
Open  thy  gates,  O  thou  favored  of  Heaven, 

Open  them  wide  to  the  homeless  and  poor. 
So  shall  the  peoples,  from  ocean  to  ocean, 

Bring  precious  tribute  of  blessing  to  thee. 
So  shall  thy  children  yield  loyal  devotion, 

All  for  the  love  of  mine  own  countrie. 


THE   SONGS    OF   THE   FUTURE. 

MERICA,  my  mother  and  my  queen, 
Thou  living  Presence  that  art  some- 
thing more 

Than  cloud-enfolded  hills  or  foam-lit  shore, 
Or  steepled  towns,  yet  silent  and  unseen, 
Save  as  thou  lendest  to  this  garment  sheen 
The  impress  of  that  grace  for  which  men  pour 
Dear  blood  in  battle,  toward  the  Delphic  door 
Of  the  closed  centuries  I  feel  thee  lean, 
Young,  eager,  beautiful,  to  know  thy  fates. 


A   SONG   OF   WAKING.  39 

One  fate  is  told.     This  money-maddened  throng 

Moves  to  the  twilight  of  its  troubled  day, 

And    high  souls    stand   without   yon   shadowy 

gates, 
Thy  flame-crowned  bards,  no  echo-voices  they, 
Whose  lips  shall  flood  the  waiting  world  with 

song. 


A   SONG   OF   WAKING. 

HE  maple  buds  are  red,  are  red, 
The  robin's  call  is  sweet; 
The  blue  sky  floats  above  thy  head, 
The  violets  kiss  thy  feet. 
The  sun  paints  emeralds  on  the  spray, 

And  sapphires  on  the  lake ; 
A  million  wings  unfold  to-day, 
A  million  flowers  awake. 

Their  starry  cups  the  cowslips  lift 

To  catch  the  golden  light, 
And  like  a  spirit  fresh  from  shrift 

The  cherry-tree  is  white. 
The  innocent  looks  up  with  eyes 

That  know  no  deeper  shade 
Than  falls  from  wings  of  butterflies, 

Too  fair  to  make  afraid. 


40  A   SONG   OF   WAKING. 

With  long,  green  raiment  blown  and  wet, 

The  willows,  hand  in  hand, 
Lean  low  to  teach  the  rivulet 

What  trees  may  understand 
Of  murmurous  tune  and  idle  dance, 

With  broken  rhymes  whose  flow 
A  poet's  ear  shall  catch,  percharice, 

A  score  of  miles  below. 

Across  the  sky  to  fairy-realm 

There  sails  a  cloud-born  ship, 
A  wind-sprite  standeth  at  the  helm 

With  laughter  on  his  lip. 
The  melting  masts  are  tipped  with  gold  \ 

The  broidered  pennons  stream. 
The  vessel  beareth  in  her  hold 

The  lading  of  a  dream. 

It  is  the  hour  to  rend  thy  chains, 

The  blossom-time  of  souls. 
Yield  all  the  rest  to  cares  and  pains ; 

To-day  delight  controls. 
Gird  on  thy  glory  and  thy  pride, 

For  growth  is  of  the  sun  • 
Expand  thy  wings,  whate'er  betide, 

The  summer  is  begun. 


THE  PRAISE   OF  NATURE.  4 1 


THE   PRAISE   OF   NATURE. 

1. 

MOTHER  Nature,  look  upon  thine 

own  ! 
From  men  and  cities  and  the  thronging 
ways 
We  come  to  fall  before  thy  gracious  throne, 

In  this  deep  solitude,  where  thou  wilt  raise 
Our  burdened  hearts,  bewildered  with  the  bliss 
And  changing  anguish  of  tumultuous  days, 

To  thy  pure  heights  of  peace.      Ah,  mother, 

kiss 
The  fever  from  our  lips  that  lost  their  song 
When  they  forgot  thy  touch,  as  seabirds  miss 

The  passion  of  their  wings  when  human  wrong 
Hath  borne  them  inland  from  their  natal  spray. 
Calm  goddess,   speak   thy   word  that   maketh 
strong, 

While  o'er  our  wearied   brows  light  shadows 

play, 
Dropt  from  the  leaves  that  fleck  the  azure  day. 


42  THE  PRAISE   OF  NA  TURE. 

II. 
Lo,  the  delight  of  Nature  !     Ye  who  feel 
Yourselves  but  slaves  beneath  the  blind  control 
Of  Circumstance,  and  bear  his  insolent  heel 

On  your  submissive  necks,  who  yield  the  soul 
To  the  despondent  hour  that  wasteth  it, 
Forgetting  how  on  rude  and  paltry  scroll 

Fair  signs  and  sacred  words  may  yet  be  writ, 
Come  to  our  joyous  mother  !     Where  she  leads 
Her  fleecy  streamlets  down  the  hillsides,  sit 

And  let  the  dawning  wind  that  wakes  the  reeds 
Refresh  your  heavy  lids,  whilst  ye  behold 
How  sunshine  revels  in  the  lowliest  weeds, 

And  only  human  growths  refuse  to  fold, 
In  narrow  cups  their  heritage  of  gold. 

in. 

And  ye  who  bow  before  the  Commonplace,  — 
A  generous  peasant  but  a  clownish  king, — 
Return  to  Nature,  till  the  oldtime  grace 

Flow  once  again  from  that  sequestered  spring, 
Deep  in  the  dim  recesses  of  the  heart, 
Where    each   man    hides   a  poet.      Would   ye 
bring 


THE  PRAISE   OF  NATURE.  43 

Food  to  his  famished  lips,  forsake  the  mart 
And  through  the  forest  guide  your  haunted  feet. 
No  curious  nymph  may  thrust  the  boughs  apart 

With  dewy  arm ;  the  Dryads  grow  discreet, 
And  scarcely  is  there  found  a  modern  breeze 
So  swift  that  it  may  catch  the  echoes  sweet 

Of  laughter  delicate  within  the  trees. 
Yet  spirits  fill  the  wood  for  him  who  sees. 

IV. 

Yea,  for  the  souls  in  pain  our  goddess  waits 
With  healing  symbols.  See  her  ocean  beat 
On  barren  sands  and  foam  in  rocky  straits 

With  unavailing  flow  and  vain  retreat. 
A  restless  breast  that  hoary  pilgrim  hath ; 
Dead  faces  touch  it  coldly,  and  his  feet 

Rage   round  the   frozen  shores  with   fruitless 

wrath, 
To  escape  his  bondage.    But  yon  moon,  as  chill 
As  some  relentless  conscience,  points  the  path, 

And,  moaning,  he  obeys.  Look  higher  still. 
Within  those  circling  spheres  are  fiery  wars, 
And  yet  their  beauteous  orbits  they  fulfill. 


44  NON  NOBIS  SOLUM. 

So  teach  us,  mother,  o'er  our  throbbing  scars, 
The  silence  and  the  glory  of  the  stars. 


NON  NOBIS  SOLUM. 

OT  for  ourselves  alone  ! 
The  universal  tone 

Of  Nature  thus  our  poor  self-seeking 
chideth. 
There    lives   no    bloom    that   in    sweet  chalice 

hideth 
Her  scent,  no  star  but  his  wan  gleam  divideth 
With  leaf  and  wayside  stone. 
Not  for  ourselves  alone  ! 

Not  for  ourselves  alone  ! 

Beneath  God's  burning  throne 
The    ethereal   soul  was  clothed  with  form  and 

feeling 
To  work  some  earthly  task  of  cheer  or  healing, 
Strike  out  some  spark  of  noble  deeds,  revealing 

The  flame  whence  all  are  blown. 

Not  for  ourselves  alone  ! 

Not  for  ourselves  alone  ! 

The  seeds  our  hands  have  sown 
Shall  yield  their  harvest  to  a  younger  reaper. 
We  battle,  heirs  of  many  a  church-yard  sleeper. 


ONCE  AND  AGAIN  4 5 

For  scions  to   come,  whose  sworded  thoughts 
strike  deeper 
Than  any  we  have  known. 
Not  for  ourselves  alone  ! 

Not  for  ourselves  alone  ! 

O  spirit,  overgrown 
With  tangled  wrongs  and  strange   confusions, 

bruising 
The  wings  of  thy  first  faith,  take  courage,  losing 
Thyself  to  find  thyself,  in  patience  choosing 

This  watchword  as  thine  own,  — 

Not  for  ourselves  alone  ! 


ONCE  AND  AGAIN. 


|§l|jjj|0  a  lonely  lake  'mid  the  high  hills  hid- 
den, 
In  the  golden  hush  of  the  afternoon, 


A  poet  came,  as  a  guest  long  bidden, 

With    dust -dimmed   raiment    and    wayworn 
shoon. 
Sly  Time  had  stolen  his  cheeks'  first  flushes  ; 

As  the  early  dawning  his  brow  was  wan  ; 
And  his  sudden  steps  from  the  silent  rushes 
Scared  the  swan. 

For  when  before  had  the  wild  swan  hearkened 
The  falling  foot  of  a  human  guest  ? 


46  ONCE  AND   AGAIN. 

When  had  man's  wavering  shadow  darkened 
The  bending  rushes  above  her  nest  ? 

Once  and  again  are  her  calm  years  numbered, 
Since  the  poet  knelt  by  the  lake's  blue  brink, 

And  his  red  lips,  kissing  the  lilies  that  slumbered, 
Laughed  to  drink. 

Then  was  his  spirit  with  song  upwelling, 
As  a  silver  brook  in  the  sunny  time. 

His  fancies  flew  to  their  native  dwelling 
In  shapes  of  beauty  and  sounds  of  rhyme. 

A  thousand  thoughts  grew  green  in  the  hedges, 
And  rippled  for  him  on  the  wind-blown  mere, 

And  the  dewdrop  left  on  the  daisy's  edges 
Held  a  sphere. 

When  the  wine  o'erfloweth,  hasten  to  drink  it, 
Lest  thy  thirst  shall  find  but  the  bitter  lees. 
Ere  the  deep  waves  whelm  and  the  dark  storms 
sink  it, 
Sail  thy  ship  for  the  purple  seas. 
Few  are  the  mortals  who  wrest  the  story 

From    the   tight-shut   fingers   of  Fame,    the 
strong ; 
Fewest  of  few  for  whose  coming,  glory 
Waiteth  long. 

Alas  for  the  poet  !  his  feet  are  whitened 

With  the  trodden  dust  of  the  hard  high  road. 


RAINY  DA  YS.  47 

Alas  for  men  !  whom  he  might  have  lightened 
By  mirth  and  music  of  half  their  load. 

Will  he  sit  him  down  in  the  long-lost  places, 
And  with  sad  eyes  dazed  by  the  shine  of  gold, 

Read  Nature's  soul  in  her  stranger  faces 
Known  of  old  ? 

Will  his  wistful  heart  weave  aforetime  visions 

From  floating  drifts  in  the  dreamy  sky  ? 
Or,  wrapt  in  the  web  of  the  world's  derisions, 
Is  the  bold  hope  bowed  that  has  soared  so 
high  ? 
It  is  fled  as  the  foam  that  the  brief  wave  crested. 

There  is  nothing  left  in  the  poet's  view 
Save  the    circling   swan    which   glides,    white- 
breasted, 

On  the  blue. 


RAINY  DAYS. 

HE  Spring  Day  rose  from  her  sleeping 
In  the  deep,  dim  caverns  of  mist, 
With  the  waiting  world  to  be  keeping 
Her  brief  and  beautiful  tryst. 
But  her  sweet  eyes  opened  weeping, 
As  the  sunshine  their  pale  lids  kissed, 
And  thus  she  arose  from  her  sleeping 
In  the  caverns  of  eastern  mist. 


48  THE   GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

The  World  had  dreamed  of  the  meeting 
From  the  first  of  the  farthest  years, 
But  her  hand  was  cold  to  his  greeting, 
And  her  cheeks  were  bitter  with  tears. 
Her  voice  was  the  wind,  repeating 
The  pajn  of  the  heart  that  hears, 
But  the  World  was  glad  of  the  meeting 
To  the  last  of  the  lingering  years. 

For  forth  from  her  tears  came  flowers, 
And  out  of  her  grief  delight ; 
The  buds  swelled  under  the  showers, 
The  blossoms,  with  sandals  white, 
Climbed  up  to  their  greenwood  bowers 
From  the  broken  seeds  and  night. 
But  who  could  foretell  the  flowers, 
Or  see  in  the  grief  delight  ? 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

H,  the  golden  sunshine  crept  through 
the  autumn  trees  and  slept 
On  her  shining  head  bowed  meekly 
coming  from  the  house  of  God, 
And  along  the  woodland  road,  wending  to  her 
new  abode, 
Where  the  April  wind  had  sowed,  laughed 
the  nodding  golden-rod. 


THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING.  49 

Thus  my  grandsire  led  his  bride,  lily-robed  and 
gentian-eyed, 
Past  the  brook  that  sang  unceasing  her  new 
name  in  silver  tone, 
Underneath  the  maple  grove,  where  the  leaves 
such  carpet  wove, 
As  their  jealous  blushes  strove  to  surpass  the 
lady's  own, 

To  a  cottage,  woodbine-thatched,  whose  rude 
door  his  hand  unlatched, 
While  above  the  drooping  eyelids  with  their 
dreamy  smile  below, 
Close  he  bent  his  comely  head,  — so  the  gosspi 
squirrels  said, 
Peeping   through   the   oak-leaves    red,   fifty 
happy  years  ago. 

For  their  love  white  plumage  lent  to  the  days 
of  their  content, 
And  so  swift  the  singing  seasons  flew  before 
their  wedded  feet, 
That  themselves  might  scarcely  know  where  the 
sunbeams  met  the  snow, 
And   the  blossoms   ceased   to   blow  in    the 
shadow  of  the  wheat. 

Thus  their  youth  ran  into  age,  and  albeit  their 
pilgrimage 


SO  THE    GOLDEN   WEDDING. 

Knew  full    many  a  thorn-set  passage  where 
they  fainted  as  they  trod, 
When  the  brooding  sunset  light  flooded  every 
vale  and  height, 
All  the  way  seemed  golden  bright,  in  the  con- 
stant smile  of  God. 

And  my  grandsire,  looking  back  o'er  the  long, 
illumined  track, 
Counting  fifty  years  like  jewels  in  his  mar- 
riage diadem, 
Stooped  anew  to  kiss  the  brows    of  his  worn 
and  withered  spouse, 
Calling  all  his  scattered  house  to  return  and 
feast  with  them. 

Straight  we  flocked  from  east  and  wrest  back  to 
the  forsaken  nest, 
Some   with   storm-beat   crests ;    and   others 
graced  by  gentle,  dove-like  ways ; 
Eagle  hearts  and  pinions  strong  ;  twilight  voices 
sweet  of  song, 
And  the  twittering  broods  that  throng  on  the 
leafy  summer  sprays. 

From   the   north   and  south  we  came,    all    the 
children  of  his  name, 
Blown  like  autumn  leaves  together  homeward 
to  the  parent  tree, 


THE  GOLDEN   WEDDING.  5  I 

And  he  blest  us  one  and  each  in  his  quaint,  un- 
lettered speech, 
Praying  all  our  feet  might  reach  mansions  by 
the  crystal  sea. 

Then  with  smiles  and  tender  tears,  honoring  the 
garnered  years, 
We  in  turn  our  costly  tokens  did  with  loving 
hands  unfold, 
But  the  old  man  turned  him  where  little  faces 
pressed  his  chair, 
For   the   gifts   he   counted   fair   were  those 
clustering  heads  of  gold. 

Yet  with  pitying  eyes  and  dim  looked  the  wed- 
ding-guests on  him, 
Stepping  softly  like  sojourners  in    a  conse- 
crated place, 
For  the  weary,  white-haired  bride   lay  in  pain 
till  eventide, 
And  before  the  dawn  she  died,  smiling  in  her 
husband's  face. 

Noiselessly  on  plumes  of  flame  to  their  sister 

angels  came, 
All   the  starlight  flushed  with  angels,  lifting 

her  beyond  the  stars, 
Where  the  golden  harp  she  bears  echoes  down 

the  jasper  stairs, 


52  OUR  BABY. 

And   the  golden  crown  she  wears  glimmers 
through  the  pearly  bars. 

Oh,  once  more  the  sunshine  crept  through  the 
Autumn  trees  and  slept 
On  her  faded  hands  crossed   meekly  borne 
from  out  the  house  of  God, 
And  beside  the  woodland  road  wending  to  her 
last  abode, 
Where  the  April  wind  had  sowed,  wept  the 
dewy  golden-rod. 


OUR  BABY. 

HAT  is  most  like  her,  our  baby  sweet, 
Strayed  from  the  skies  on  yester-even, 
So  newly  come  that  her  dimpled  feet 
Still  are  missed  in  the  gate  of  Heaven, 
Where  the  angels  kissed  them   and  bade  them 

What  is  most  like  her  ?     Don't  you  know? 

The  bud  of  arose,  —  of  a  moss-rose,  fair, 
Flushed  and  dainty,  a  folded  flower, 
The  blossom  a  woman  is  fain  to  wear 
Over  the  heart.     May  sun  and  shower 
Brim  her  cup  to  the  overflow 
With  dewy  perfumes,  if  this  be  so. 


SLEEPING  BESSIE.  53 

Or  call  her  rather  a  nestling  dove 

That   fluttered    down    through    the    moonlight 

amber, 
To  be  brooded  under  the  wings  of  love 
Here  in  a  hushed  and  happy  chamber. 
May  never  a  stain  of  our  earth  below 
Dim  her  plumage,  if  this  be  so. 

Or  else  I  deem  her  a  spell-bound  lute, 
Unconscious  yet  of  her  songful  mission, 
The  silver  melodies  sealed  and  mute, 
Waiting  the  breath  of  the  sweet  musician, 
Even  of  Life.     May  Grief  and  Woe 
Melt  in  her  music,  if  this  be  so. 

I  liken  her  unto  a  pearl,  — a  pearl 
From  seas  of  trouble.     But  whist,  my  numbers  ! 
What  strains  are  these  for  our  baby-girl, 
Shut  like  a  star  in  a  mist  of  slumbers  ? 
They  vex  her  dreams  with  their  tuneless  flow. 
She  heard  the  angels  a  ?iight  ago. 


SLEEPING    BESSIE. 

IGHTLY  tread  who  come  to  peep 
At  the  little  maiden's  sleep. 
Let  your  steps  the  carpet  cross, 
Soft  as  sunshine  over  moss, 
Lest  her  dream  should  suffer  loss. 


54  SLEEPING  BESSIE. 

Hushed  the  baby  lies,  so  late 
Entered  through  the  crystal  gate 
That  a  calm  and  holy  grace, 
Borrowed  from  some  blessed  place, 
Shineth  still  within  her  face. 

Lashes,  laid  in  slumber  meek, 
Fringe  with  gold  a  tender  cheek, 
Tinted  like  the  dewy  sprays 
Of  the  blossomed  peach,  whose  praise 
Floods  the  robin's  roundelays. 

And  as  if  a  white-rose  tree 
Dropped  its  daintiest  petal,  se 
How  the  dimpled  hand  gleams  fair 
Through  the  ripples  of  her  hair, 
Clasped  by  angels  unaware. 

Who  shall  sing  her  cradle-song  ? 
Silver  streams  would  do  her  wrong ; 
Whispering  leaves  are  over  rude, 
And  the  twitter  in  the  wood 
From  the  linnet's  nestling  brood. 

Flowers  we  shed,  in  lieu  of  speech, 
With  a  blessing  shut  in  each, 
Culled  at  dawn  from  emerald  dells, 
Where  the  wild  bee  longest  dwells, 
Cradled  deep  in  honey  bells. 


SLEEPING  BESSIE.  55 

Strew  the  sweets  above  her  rest, 
Only  hearts-ease  on  the  breast, 
By  our  potent  sylvan  art 
Charming  thus  the  budding  heart 
From  all  thorny  sting  and  smart. 

On  the  blue  eyes,  curtained  fast, 
Blue  forget-me-nots  we  cast. 
Mayflowers  pink  we  scatter  free 
O'er  the  feet.     On  hill  and  lea 
Fragrant  may  their  treading  be  ! 

Last  of  all  are  lilies  given, 
That  the  maiden  soul  to  Heaven 
May  uplift  its  chalice  white, 
Where  the  teardrops  of  the  night 
Turn  to  pearls  with  dawning  light. 

Nay  j  but  here  there  bendeth  one 
Doth  out-bless  our  benison. 
Deepest  love  is  purest  prayer, 
Mounting  high  the  starry  stair 
To  the  Love  beyond  compare. 

See!  she  stirs.     The  dimple  dips 
All  about  the  drowsy  lips. 
Bonny  dreams  blue  eyes  beguile 
Not  so  well  but  mother's  smile 
Shall  to  waking  reconcile. 


56  UK  FORGIVEN. 


UNFORGIVEN. 

AST  thou    brought  the   kiss   that  for- 
giveth  wrong 
To  his  lips  too  cold  to  ask  it  ? 
Didst  thou  deem  the  buds  he  missed  so  long 

Would  blossom  upon  his  casket  ? 
In  the  heaven-gate  he  may  scarcely  wait 

To  look  on  thy  last  love-token, 
Now  that  the  silver  cord  is  loosed 
And  the  golden  bowl  is  broken. 

The  silver  cord,  the  shining  cord, 

With  all  thine  heart-strings  woven 
Is  rent  away,  and  by  fiery  sword 

Thy  mail  of  pride  is  cloven. 
No  tears  so  salt  can  cleanse  thy  fault, 

And  the  bitter  words  once  spoken, 
Long  ere  the  silver  cord  was  loosed, 

Or  the  golden  bowl  was  broken. 

The  bowl  that  stood  with  thirsty  brim 

From  off  its  shattered  edges 
Lets  slip  thy  wine  of  love,  too  dim 

With  old  forgotten  pledges. 
Too  late,  too  late  for  love  or  hate. 

Be  our  words  of  pardon  spoken, 
Or  ever  the  silver  cord  is  loosed, 

Or  the  golden  bowl  is  broken. 


SEEKING    THE  SPRING.  57 


SEEKING   THE   SPRING. 

[WO  shepherds  sate  in  a  cavern  gate 
And  plained  for  the  frozen  rills, 
The  pale  clouds  low  with  the  heavy 
snow, 
And  the  flock-forsaken  hills. 
Their  empty  pipes  on  their  silent  lips 

Lay  chill  as  the  icy  spears 
That  grow  where  the  snow  from  the  tree-bough 
drips 
Like  a  wood-nymph's  falling  tears, 
A  nymph  hid  dark  in  the  rugged  bark 
From  the  unbelieving  years. 

"  I  will  go,"  saith  one,  "  to  seek  the  Sun, 

And  his  daughter,  the  Spring,  to  spy, 
In  the  windy  east  where  they  lie  and  feast 

In  a  nook  of  the  misted  sky." 
So  he  clasped  his  pipe  to  his  songless  breast, 

The  shepherd  who  sought  the  Spring, 
And  left  his  fellow  to  scorn  the  quest 

And  wait  for  her  steps  to  bring 
The  music  gift  that  his  heart  should  lift 

To  the  level  where  high  hearts  sing. 

'Neath  the  morning  star,  by  the  ocean  far, 
The  seeker  the  Spring  did  find. 


58  SEEKING    THE  SPRING. 

With  a  timid  grace  she  had  hid  her  face 

In  a  veil  of  inwoven  wind, 
Where  shining  raindrops,  and  calls  of  birds, 

And  odors  of  buds  awake, 
Touched   the   shepherd's  lips  with  a  sense  of 
words, 

And  he  sang,  for  the  Spring's  sweet  sake, 
Till  the    snow-bound   woods   and    the   frosted 
floods 

The  chains  of  their  bondage  brake. 

Then  the  Spring  danced  on  till  her  white  feet 
shone 

On  the  slope  of  the  western  wave, 
And  the  shepherd  rose  from  his  dim  repose, 

Who  had  slumbered  within  the  cave  ; 
But  every  blossom  had  seen  the  Spring 

And  was  brimmed  with  her  scent  and  hue, 
And  every  thrush  in  his  leafy  swing 

Knew  all  that  the  shepherd  knew. 
Who  would  care  to  hear,  though  he  carolled 
clear, 

When  the  soft  spring  breezes  blew? 


OUT  OF  SIGHT    OF  LAND, 


59 


OUT   OF    SIGHT   OF   LAND. 


i. 


E  are  at  sea,  at  sea,  at  sea, 
Still  floating  onward  dreamily. 
The  isles  and  capes  fall  far  behind, 
Blown  backward  by  the  salty  wind. 
The  sky  her  sapphire  chalice  turns 
Upon  the  deep,  which  gleams  and  burns 
With  sunlight ;  in  the  midst  we  ride, 
A  fleck  upon  the  sheeny  tide. 
Millions  of  sparkles  leap  and  dance, 
Above  the  blinding,  blue  expanse  ; 
And  on  the  round  horizon-rim 
The  ghosts  of  vessels  dawn  and  dim. 
Beneath  our  bended  glances  break 
The  splendors  of  the  restless  wake. 
We  watch  the  iris-shedding  wheel ; 
We  hear  the  swift  melodious  keel, 
And  wonder,  when  with  placid  eye 
Some  strange  sea-monarch  plunges  by 
Between  his  waves  in  marshaled  file 
That  doff  their  white-plumed  caps  the  while. 


ii. 


We  are  at  sea,  at  sea,  at  sea, 
Still  floating  onward  dreamily. 


60  UNDER    THE  SNOWS. 

What  is  this  marvel  that  is  wrought 
Within  our  silent  haunts  of  thought? 
We  hail  no  ships  of  roseate  shells  ; 
We  catch  no  mermaid's  bridal  bells ; 
No  siren's  song  with  yearning  stirs 
The  souls  of  drifting  mariners. 
The  world,  alas  !  hath  waxed  too  wise 
To  trust  her  cradle  lullabies. 
And  nevermore  her  feet  may  stand 
In  moonlight  glades  of  fairyland. 
Yet  on  the  main  whose  gray  heart  beat 
Beneath  the  westward-sailing  fleet 
That  bore  Columbus,  'neath  the  sun 
That  shone  on  builded  Babylon, 
Ourselves  unto  ourselves  grow  strange, 
Made  conscious  of  our  mortal  change. 
We  are  the  dream,  and  only  we, 
'Twixt  the  enduring  sky  and  sea. 


UNDER   THE   SNOWS. 

NDER  the  drifted  snows,  with  weeping 
and  holy  rite, 
For   a   little    maid's   repose    let    the 
lonely  bed  be  dight. 
Cold  is  the  cradle  cover  our  pitiful  hands  fold 

over 
The  heart  that  had  won  repose  or  ever  it  knew 
delight. 


FLIGHT. 


6l 


High  are  the  heavens  and  steep  to  us  who 
would  enter  in 

By  the  fasts  that  our  faint  hearts  keep  and  the 
thorn-set  crowns  we  win. 

Sweetly  the  child  awaketh,  brightly  the  day- 
dawn  breaketh 

On  the  eyes  that  fell  asleep  or  ever  they  looked 
on  sin. 


FLIGHT. 

RAY  shadows  roughen  all  the  sea, 
The  birds  are  met  on  rock  and  tree, 
But  no  debate  of  love  or  hate 
Doth  sway  this  busy  company. 

Ah,  what  impatient  pulses  beat 

In  those  poised  wings,  what  sudden  heat 

To  quit  the  isle  whose  April  smile 
The  blithe  nest-builders  found  so  sweet ! 

The  silent,  dark,  unswerving  line, 
Obedient  to  the  impulse  fine, 

Begins  its  flight  at  shut  of  night 
Across  the  leagues  of  bitter  brine. 


Before  them  lie  the  gardens  fair 
With  balm  and  bloom  and  purple  air. 


62  THE    CHAMBER    OF  PEACE. 

They  leave  behind  the  boding  wind, 
The  frosted  fields,  the  branches  bare. 

Frail  lovers  of  the  languid  rose, 
A  nobler  joy  yon  raven  knows, 

That  dares  abide  the  wintry  tide 
And  revel  in  the  blinding  snows. 

Thou,  too,  O  soul,  disdain  to  flee 
Where  siren  ease  would  beckon  thee. 

In  stress  and  strain  and  battle-pain, 
Win  thou  thy  peace  by  victory. 


THE   CHAMBER   OF   PEACE. 

"  Windows  that  looked  toward  the  Sun-Rising,  and  the 
name  of  that  chamber  was  Peace." 

N  that  volume  penned  in  prison 
For  the  faith  of  Christ  arisen, 
On  that  web  of  golden  fancies 
Spun  in  holy  Bunyan's  trances, 
Long  I  mused  a  Sabbath  even, 
Weary  with  the  march  toward  heaven. 

Even  as  Christian,  once  benighted, 
Sloth-betrayed  and  sore  affrighted 
For  the  roaring  of  the  lion, 
Darkling  trod  the  path  to  Zion. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  SPRING. 

But  for  him,  though  long  belated, 
Still  the  wide-swung  portals  waited  ; 

Still  the  gracious,  white-robed  maiden 
Welcomed  in  the  heavy-laden. 
And  in  slumber-haunted  chamber, 
Facing  orient  skies  of  amber, 
From  his  grief  he  found  release, 
For  that  chamber's  name  was  Peace. 

Lord  of  Pilgrims,  be  entreated 

Still  to  succor  souls  defeated  ! 

Wash  our  stains  more  white  than  wool 

In  thy  Palace  Beautiful, 

That  our  tears  awhile  may  cease, 

Resting  in  thy  perfect  peace. 


63 


THE   BIRTH    OF    SPRING. 

HE  sun  hath  returned  to  the  land 
And  the  breath    of    his   coming  is 
sweet. 

The  wood-trees  eagerly  stand, 
Their  brown  arms  reaching  for  heat. 
The  white  lights  quiver  and  shiver 
And  flash  and  leap  on  the  river, 
And  the  snow-strips  wax  fainter  and  fair, 
Till  I  fain  would  lie  silent,  forever  and  aye, 


64  THE   BIRTH  OF  SPRING. 

Held  close  to  the  breast  of  the  radiant  day 
And  fed  with  her  odorous  air. 

But  the  sun  demandeth  his  song 

And  the  waters  are  wooing  a  praise, 
And  inethinks  that  my  heart  groweth  strong 

In  the  promise  and  pride  of  the  days. 
And  my  mouth  that  has  gnawed  on  the  vines 
Winter-beaten  and  faded  and  cold, 
Is  athirst  for  the  harvested  wines 
And  the  fair-fashioned  vessels  of  gold, 
Which  the  goddess  of  life  shall  hold  to  the  lips, 
Ere  the  changing  earth  in  the  shadow  dips, 
And  the  hours  of  light  are  told. 

The  sunshine  strikes  down  to  my  soul, 
And  my  soul  reaches  up  to  the  sun. 

Farewell  to  the  days  of  thy  dole, 

For  the  days  of  thy  triumph  are  won, 

O  Faith,  and  thy  wings  are  alight 

With  the  morning  that  follows  the  night. 

Forgotten  are  winter  and  death, 

In  the  power  and  presence  of  God, 

For  the  murmuring  winds  are  his  breath, 
And  in  blossoms  He  treadeth  the  sod. 

But  the  sun  demandeth  his  song 

And  the  waters  are  wooing  a  praise, 

And  methinks  that  my  heart  groweth  strong 
In  the  promise  and  pride  of  the  days. 


THE  NEW  JERUSALEM.  65 

And  my  mouth  that  has  gnawed  on  the  vines 

Winter-beaten  and  faded  and  cold, 

Is  athirst  for  the  harvested  wines 

And  the  fair-fashioned  vessels  of  gold, 

Which  the  goddess  of  truth  shall  hold  to  the 

lips 
Ere  the  passing  soul  in  the  shadow  dips 
And  the  hours  of  life  are  told. 


THE  NEW   JERUSALEM. 

HEN   the    birds    have    hushed    their 
choirs, 
Through  the  sunset's  rifted  fires, 
Like  a  queenly  diadem 
Gleam  afar  the  golden  spires 
Of  the  New  Jerusalem. 

Thorny  be  our  path  and  sterile, 
There  is  rest  from  pain  and  peril, 

Where  with  many  a  flashing  gem, 
Jasper,  chrysolite,  and  beryl, 

Shines  the  New  Jerusalem. 

Not  for  these  my  heart  beats  faster, 
But  for  her  ascended  Master. 

Oh,  to  touch  his  garment's  hem 
In  the  courts  of  alabaster, 

In  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 


66  AZRAEL. 


AZRAEL. 


F  all  the  angels  whose  melodious  breath 
The  Sapphire  Throne  with  praise  en- 
compasseth, 
Amid  that  rainbow-plumed,  ecstatic  choir 
Most  beautiful  art  thou,  benignant  Death. 

For  we  who  dwell  beneath  this  cloudy  tent 
Some  changing  years,  are  all  too  early  spent 

By  covert  griefs  that  fret  the  heart  like  fire, 
Our    staffs    soon    broken     and    our    sandals 
rent. 

Though    sweet   the   grace  of   moon-enchanted 

night 
And  day  serene  in  amethystine  light, 

Matched  with  the  joys  of  sense,  our  souls  rise 

higher, 
And   human   tears    may  shut   the  stars   from 

sight. 

But,  awful  Friend,  the  touch  of  thy  chill  palm 
Falls  on  the  fevered  heart  like  healing  balm, 
Till  fitful  bliss,  keen  pain  and  wild  desire 
Lie  hushed  together  in  most  holy  calm. 


THE   REM0NS7RANCE.  6? 

What  though  thy  cup,  with  dark  devices  chased, 
Strike  pallor  down  the  lip,  to  mortal  taste 
So  passing  bitter  with  the  Stygian  mire 
And  nightshade    plucked   on   sad    Cimmerian 
waste  ? 

Yet  when  the  mystic  veil  about  thee  rolled 
Shifts  for  a  fleeting  space  its  sable  fold, 

Blown  by  the  flame  of  the  funereal  pyre, 
Thy  vesture  gleams  of  bright,  celestial  gold. 

Gloom-mantled  herald  of  the  light  to  be, 
Thy  dusky  wings  that  spread  from  sea  to  sea 
Hide  us  from  evil,  and   thy  sword,  though 
dire 
The  sweeping  blade,  sets  sorrow's  captives  free. 

Of  all  the  angels  whose  melodious  breath 
The  Sapphire  Throne  with  praise  encompasseth, 

Amid  that  rainbow-plumed,  ecstatic  choir 
Most  beautiful  art  thou,  benignant  Death. 


THE  REMONSTRANCE. 

EARY  of  life  ?     But  what  if  death 

To  new  confusion  bids  ? 
Who  knows  if  labor  ends  with  breath, 
Or  tears  with  folded  lids  ? 


68  THE   REMONSTRANCE. 

The  spirit  still  may  miss  of  rest, 
Though  oft  the  daisies  blow 

Above  the  hushed  and  darkened  breast 
Shut  close  from  sun  and  snow. 

Those  halls,  all  curiously  planned, 
Lie  void,  but  whither  thence 

Hath  fled  the  tenant  ?     Shall  the  wand 
Of  peace  her  dews  dispense 

In  equal  share  to  hearts  that  beat 

Undaunted  till  the  even, 
And  rebels  whose  unbidden  feet 

Would  storm  the  heights  of  heaven  ? 

Perchance  no  soul  shall  taste  of  sleep 

Until  its  task  be  sped. 
The  charge  the  living  failed  to  keep 

Goes  over  to  the  dead. 

One  perfect  and  mysterious  Will 
Threads  all  this  mortal  maze, 

And  calls  each  human  voice  to  fill 
Some  silent  note  of  praise. 

The  shadowy,  as  the  sunlit  hours, 

That  holy  Will  confess. 
Death  holds  no  secret  slumber-bowers 

For  our  unfaithfulness. 


THE  REMONSTRANCE.  69 

Then  while  the  morning  still  is  fair, 

The  earth-winds  o'er  thee  play, 
Speed  on  the  Master's  work,  and  bear 

The  burden  of  thy  day. 

Ay,  welcome  each  new  toil  and  pain, 

The  fiery  angels  sent 
To  teach  our  harps  their  golden  strain, 

While  yet  in  banishment  \ 

Lest  e'en  for  thee,  whose  steps  may  roam 

Far  in  some  tangled  glade, 
When  all  the  sons  of  God  flock  home, 

The  feast  should  be  delayed. 

For,  oh !  too  long,  too  long  we  fare 

Without  our  Father's  gate, 
"  Thy  kingdom  come  !  "  is  all  our  prayer, 

And  still  it  cometh  late. 

Not  wrath,  dear  Lord,  thy  mercy  seals. 

Our  own  unrighteous  hands 
Hold  back  thy  shining  chariot-wheels, 

And  rob  the  wistful  lands. 

For  none  shall  walk  in  perfect  white 

Till  every  soul  be  clean  \ 
So  close  for  sorrow  and  delight 

These  human  spirits  lean. 


70  THE  NEW    YEAR. 

But  thou  go  forth  and  do  thy  deed, 

In  forest  and  in  town, 
Nor  sigh  for  ease,  while  pain  and  need 

Are  plucking  at  thy  gown. 

And  thus,  when  bitter  turneth  sweet, 

And  every  heart  is  blest, 
Perchance  to  thee  God's  hand  shall  mete 

His  uniinagined  rest. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

ONG  foretold  by  those  prophets  old, 
The  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stars, 
The  New  Year  waits  at  Time's  high 
gates 
And  clashes  the  golden  bars. 
And  the  soul  of  the  world  awakens  and  gropes 
In  a  twilight  glimmer  of  fears  and  hopes, 
As  a  new  wave  breaks  on  the  beaten  shores, 
As  a  new  foot  falls  on  the  trodden  floors, 
And  a  New  Year  stands  with  uplifted  hands 
In  the  light  of  the  opened  doors. 

All  uncrowned,  with  his  hair  unbound, 
His  white  hair  loose  on  the  wind, 
The  Old  Year  goes  to  his  long  repose, 
But  he  casts  his  gifts  behind. 


THE  NEW  YEAR.  y\ 

And  he  bears  our  curses,  he  carries  our  thanks, 
As  he  takes  his  place  in  the  pilgrim  ranks 
Of  the  dim- eyed  years  who  journey  along, 
Shrilling  us  back  a  discordant  song, 
That  mingles  and  blends  with  the  distanceand 
ends 
In  a  harmony  soft  and  strong. 

Long  foretold,  in  the  morning  cold, 

With  pain  and  music  and  mirth, 

The  New  Year  gleams  on  the  broken  dreams 

Of  the  fast-revolving  earth. 
A  secret,  a  change,  and  a  mystery, 
What  hath  not  been  and  what  is  to  be, 
Nourished  and  cherished  and  hidden  away, 
Saved  by  Time  for  this  ripening  day, 
To  work  a  deed  forever  decreed 

And  a  mission  it  must  obey. 

All  unknown,  it  is  thou  alone 
Who  canst  tell  thine  errand  aright, 
A  whispered  thought  when  the  world  was  not 
And  a  sign  made  in  the  night. 
Far  from  the  touch  of  our  vain  surmise, 
In  thy  folded  hours  thy  meaning  lies, 
To  some  for  blessing,  to  some  for  curse, 
Yet  none  would  thy  destined  dawn  disperse, 
For  it  works  in  the  plan  that  is  more  than  man 
And  is  well  for  the  universe. 


1 


ne  may  be  fully  assured  that  the  Presidential  election 
of  1896  saved  the  integrity  of  the  Nation,  but  it  is  quite 
imother  thing  to  assert,  or  even  to  imply,  that  this  grea$ 
country  consciously  divided  upon  a  plain  point  of  in- 
tegrity, and  that  our  honest  men  outnumbered  our. 
dishonest  by  but  half  a  million.  Too  much  of  this 
sort  of  thing  has  already  been  said.    We  are  sorry  to 

see  it  hinted  in  a  volume  so  important  in  its  general 
tone. 

In  a  -work  of  this  kind  the  question  of  omission  must 
be  the  embarrassing  one.  Miss  Bates  says  in  her 
preface:  "  It  is  obvious  that  the  limits  of  this  survey; 
forbid  the  mention  of  every  distinguished  name,"  yet 
her  list  of  authors  mentioned  is  so  comprehensive  that, 
on  the  first  reading,  we  thought  she  had  left  out  none 
•with  any  pretentions  to  merit.  We  begin  to  find,  however, 
some  rather  surprising  omissions.  Henry  George  is  not 
named,  nor  Dr.  Richard  S.  Storrs,  nor  Dr.  Henry  van 
Dyke,  nor  Theodore  O'Hara,  poet  of  a  single  poem, 
almost  of  a  single  stanza,  but  of  a  stanza  how  consg* 

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